What is this quietness?
So full of open jaws
and fierce, ablaze embers.
Is it maybe hounding me furtive into the mist
of days and nights,
or am I maybe invoking it with a thirst
of some silence that never ends?
Enough would be a sweet whisper blowing
on the bleeding tremor of this gag,
and everything would become light air,
water sprouting in transparent
fountains made of emerald and silver.
Words were not born in me,
they were leaving a mark between my fingers
from every thing I touched,
from every exquisite dart with which two eyes
and two arms made a wound or squeezed
in their harvest time
every sweet sonata.
They are here.
On this quiet page
as into furrows announcing
the lush forest in fallow,
tied to the voiceless winter
of an outright silence.
Others waited for the resounding fiber
among the towering foliage;
the ravishing promise of the fruit
swelled by life,
sprouting and falling.
Useless.
That's why time is coming.
That's why this quietness.
What is this quietness?
The announce of oblivion,
of love put to flight, irredeemably.
